


Central Park Concerto No. 3 for War

by theletterelle



Category: Bandom, Foxy Shazam, Neon Trees, Panic At The Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/pseuds/theletterelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been over a year since the band broke in half, but Spencer and Brendon have repaired it as best they can. On a tour stop in New York, they meet up with Ryan. That's when everything goes to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Due to this story growing monstrously in size as I wrote it, only the prologue is included here. There is some fudging of the canon timeline and events.

Central Park Concerto No. 3 for War: Overture

 

**pickup**

Spencer stares at the phone in his hand and wonders if he hasn’t made a terrible mistake. It feels too soon, even with as late as it is. The longest they’d ever gone without speaking before they were eighteen was two days. When they were having their musical differences, it had stretched to a week. This time, it’s been a year.

Brendon won’t like it. He cast himself as Spencer’s protector back when it all went down, and as ridiculous as Spencer still thinks that is, Brendon takes his job seriously. If anything, it was Brendon who needed protection, but he jumped out in front, took things head-on like a yappy little terrier who didn’t realize how much the world outweighed him. Through sheer dogged stubbornness, Brendon had managed to wrestle the rest of the world into submission, had worked with Spencer to put together words and notes, and now they’re touring on a six-month-old album and earning enough to be able to afford the bus and pay their touring musicians. There are still crowds of fans waiting for them at each venue, and though they might cheer louder for the old songs, they know all the words to the new ones, and that’s enough.

Maybe it’s not so ridiculous, the thought of Brendon’s protection.

 

**intro**

It’s only supposed to be four hours to New York from Boston. It’s been six, and they aren’t even in Manhattan yet. Traffic is more than fierce; it’s stalled. The fact that they’re in a giant bus isn’t any help. There’s no way for the driver to change lanes to take advantage of a brief surge ahead, and even if he could, there’s no guarantee that lane wouldn’t stall out dead.

At least Brendon isn’t driving. He’s able to lie down in the back lounge, flipping through websites on his phone, tweeting pictures of the cars out the window-- _these are my new best friends_ \-- hitting shuffle on the music whenever he gets to a song he doesn’t feel like listening to. An earbud falls out and hangs to the floor. He stuffs it back in. 

“If we don’t get there soon,” says Cash solemnly, “I’m shitting in the bus toilet. I can’t take it anymore, man.”

“I will kill you,” Ian says. “If you go anywhere near the bathroom, I will kill you fucking dead.”

“You know when people die, they shit their pants,” Cash says, unrepentant. “You’ll have to clean it up.”

“Oh my God, shut up. I could walk faster than this,” Ian groans. 

“Go ahead,” says Brendon, letting the earbud dangle again. “We can race. You against the bus.” 

“I could poop on the side of the road,” says Cash. “How would that be?”

Ian frowns out the window. “Your humor is not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” says Brendon. “If you’re twelve.” Which Brendon is, sometimes, so he actually is finding this funny. “You have to wipe your ass with leaves, though. That’s the rule for pooping outside.”

Cash squirms. “I’m gonna do it. Sorry, guys. I have to.” He goes, followed by Ian’s “You’re a dead man!”

“Close the door,” Brendon calls after him. “Close all the doors.” A tweet shows up a minute later. _#Twooping on the bus. In your face @theiancrawford._ Brendon shakes his head and grins. Ian groans and soon another tweet pops up. _@cashcashmoney is about to get a swirly. #nolie_

It’s a combination of boredom and ridiculousness that has Brendon unable to stop laughing. It’s a crime that a day off should be spent sitting in traffic. At this rate, they won’t make it to the hotel before dinnertime, and Brendon’s shopping plans will be severely cut short. 

Spencer opens the door from the bunk area. “Close the door,” Ian yells. Spencer looks confused.

“Like you’ve never stunk up the bathroom,” Brendon says, tossing a Butterfinger wrapper at Ian. “Hey, dude.”

“Hey,” says Spencer. “Brendon, can I talk to you alone for a sec?”

Brendon sits up, because Spencer sounds serious. Ian looks back and forth between them, nods. “Oh yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll catch Cash before he has a chance to... yeah, I’ll just go then.” He makes his escape, and Spencer closes the door behind him.

“What’s up?” Brendon asks. “Is everything okay at home?”

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. I just...” Spencer sits down. “I called Ryan. We’re going out to dinner with him tonight.” He glares at Brendon in preemptive defense.

“Oh,” Brendon says. He’s not sure what else there is to say. “Okay.”

It seems to be the right response, because the tension goes out of Spencer’s shoulders and he slumps against the seat. “He’s in town,” he says. “And I thought-- I mean. It’s been kind of a while.”

It’s been over a year, Brendon knows but doesn’t say. They’d tried to keep things normal after the split, even though Ryan had been touchy about them keeping the band name, and Jon had said some things that had knocked Brendon’s newfound confidence on its ass. Whatever. It’s over. It’s behind them.

“How did you know he was here?” Brendon asks instead.

Spencer shrugs. “Twitter,” he says. “He talked about going to a bar in Brooklyn with Alex.” And that’s another thing. Brendon knows Spencer doesn’t expect Ryan won’t have any friends. Ryan’s always had a quiet charisma that’s drawn any number of people, including Brendon, into his orbit. But Alex. Ryan talks about Alex a lot. Not so much Spencer anymore.

“So, where are we going?” asks Brendon. It’s the right question; Spencer straightens up and outlines the plan for the evening. Brendon nods and hmms and says “Yeah, totally cool,” and watches Spencer come back into himself. By the time they reach the tollbooth, he’s almost normal again.

*

They meet Ryan outside a Nepalese restaurant called the Himalayan Yak. Brendon cracks some joke about shaving it, and Ryan looks at him with an eyebrow raised. Brendon won’t let himself be cowed. Ryan’s wearing a wide-collar shirt with a maroon corduroy jacket. He doesn’t get to look down on Brendon’s jokes.

“Zooey likes it here,” says Ryan when they’re seated at a table squeezed up against the wall. “She says the dhoepa kkhatsa is really good.”

Brendon looks at the menu and blinks in disbelief. When the waiter comes to the table, Brendon orders vegetable spring rolls. He doesn’t care what Ryan thinks. Brendon may not be strictly vegetarian anymore, but eating beef stomach is not a line he’s willing to cross.

After they’ve ordered, there’s an awkward silence that Brendon finally breaks. “I didn’t know you had a place out here. Where are you?” He shoots Spencer a _this-was-your-idea-dammit-talk_ glance, but Spencer’s looking down at his plate and doesn’t see. 

“It’s actually Alex’s cousin’s place. She’s in London working on her dissertation. It’s in Cobble Hill, right by this place that serves amazing deviled eggs. I don’t remember, do you know Cobble Hill?”

“Nope,” says Brendon, hiding irritation under a wide smile. “I know about DUMBO from Gossip Girl, but that’s about it.”

“DUMBO,” says Ryan, and shrugs. Apparently there’s nothing more to say about that.

“How is Alex?” Spencer says. Brendon doesn’t miss the way Ryan’s face softens just a little. He’s pretty sure Spencer doesn’t either.

“Alex is good. He’s working with Z on her solo album. The Like went on hiatus, I don’t know if you heard. She’s been writing ever since.” Ryan pulls apart a piece of naan and folds it. “She’s got a side project going too.”

“Cool,” says Brendon. Spencer has that strained-jaw look. Brendon hates seeing it on him, and he’s getting close to hating Ryan for causing it. “It’s too bad about the Like. I thought the last album was a pretty neat shift--” he sings the chorus to Walk of Shame-- “and I would’ve liked to catch a show. How hiatus-y is it?”

“Pretty much over, yeah. She’s cool with it, though.”

“Cool,” says Brendon again, and thankfully their food comes. Brendon can’t believe Ryan’s going to eat his, but he cuts into it easily and chews it with every evidence of enjoyment. Brendon ducks his head and pays close attention to his spring rolls.

Spencer is eating without looking at anyone. He divides his food into equal bites and chews them methodically. Ryan isn’t looking up either. The tension thickens until Brendon can’t bear it anymore. “Zack moved, I don’t know if you knew. He got a place right near the beach; it’s not as big but it’s really nice. The water’s a lot colder; you wouldn’t think a couple hours south would make a difference, but it does. And what the hell, right? It’s south, it’s supposed to be warmer. The ocean isn’t that cold in Mexico, and it’s not that much further. I don’t know, man, it’s a weird thing.” He takes a bite of spring roll and gears up for more. “I took Penny with me last time. She hates the water, so she runs at it and bites it, then runs away. She gets wet, and that just makes her mad, and she barks, it’s just the best. Sarah and I can watch her for hours.” He doesn’t dare stop. The silence has to be filled somehow. Spencer looks over and smiles at him, and that makes him try even harder.

When Brendon runs out of things to say, Spencer speaks up. “What are you working on now?”

Brendon wasn’t going to ask. He skirted too close to the subject talking about the Like. He wouldn’t have asked if he knew they’d broken up. The change to sixties pop, the hiatus that isn’t really a hiatus... yeah, the parallels are undeniable, and the last thing he wants is to draw attention to the fact that he and Spencer are here to do a show, and Ryan’s band is gone.

Ryan doesn’t seem bothered by the question. “I did a show with Ivan a couple months ago.” He sips at his tea.

Good. That’s good. Maybe they can avoid unpleasantness. “Ivan who?” Brendon asks.

“It’s the band name,” says Ryan. “You probably haven’t heard of them.”

Brendon breathes in through his nose. “Yeah, no,” he says cheerily. He looks over at Spencer, whose expression is locked down tight. _Your turn._

“What did you think of the new album?” asks Spencer.

And Ryan, fucking Ryan, wipes his mouth and says “It’s, yeah. Not my thing, obviously, but you guys put it together really well.”

This is when Brendon is an inch away from kicking Ryan’s skinny pale supercilious ass.

He could have said _I liked the part where._ He could have said _It sounded like when we._ He could have simply said _It’s good._ Not this equivocation that says louder than he could have spoken it, _your choices are wrong and your music sucks._

To his credit, Ryan seems to realize he said the wrong thing. “How’s tour?” he asks instead, and yes, Brendon can handle that. He can talk all day, tell funny stories about them leaving Ian behind at a truck stop and how Cash throws a fit when there’s no Mountain Dew Throwback at the convenience stores, and if Ryan feels uncomfortable hearing about his replacements, he can go fuck himself.

Brendon is done.

*

“I’m sorry,” says Spencer when they’re in the cab back to the hotel.

Brendon doesn’t try to pretend he doesn’t know what Spencer means. “It’s okay.”

“No. It’s really not.” Spencer leans his head against Brendon’s. “It’s so not.”

“It will be.” Brendon puts his hand on Spencer’s knee and squeezes gently. “It’s just weird because we haven’t talked in a while. It’ll ease up. Just give it some time to work out.”

“He didn’t use to be that much of a dick,” Spencer mumbles.

“Uh...” Brendon says. Then he snickers.

“Oh, fuck you,” says Spencer, but he’s laughing too. “Oh Jesus, that was awful. Whose terrible idea was that?”

“Mine,” Brendon says, “totally mine.”

“I knew it,” Spencer says. “Your ideas suck.”

“It’s true,” agrees Brendon. “Fuck it. Let’s go to FAO. I saw a stuffed coral reef I want to get Sarah.”

“Oh God, seriously? What was it last time? A python?”

“A sloth, a stuffed sloth, and it was awesome. She’ll never be expecting a whole reef. It’ll blow her away. I’m gonna FedEx that shit and tell her to call me when it gets there. I want to see her face.”

“What’ll you top that with next time? A stuffed porcupine with real quills? Action quills, with real poking action?”

“That,” says Brendon reverently, “would be _amazing._ ”

*

Backstage the next day isn’t really backstage, just a few trailers off to the side. It’s a gorgeous day, blue-skyed and bright with a breeze that nips at Brendon’s arms and chest.

“Put your shirt back on,” says Zack in a longsuffering tone. 

“Check out my guns,” says Brendon, flexing a bicep. “I’m fuckin’ ripped.”

“I can almost see them,” Zack agrees. “A few more years of lifting and you might actually have something there.”

There are a few screams from across the playfield. Zack waves, and the security guys shoo the girls away. Brendon does a handstand, and there are a few more shrieks till the girls lose sight of the stage.

“Quit screwing around,” Spencer calls, and plays a roll on his snare. “Wayward Son, c’mon. Cash, get your ass back here; soundcheck’s not over.”

Brendon takes the mic obediently, and the harmonies blast out over the park. “Carry on my wayward son! There’ll be peace when you are done!” Brendon bops around the stage, even goofier than usual, trying to coax a laugh out of Spence. He checks over his shoulder every so often, and he’s rewarded with a smile and a shake of Spencer’s head. Brendon grins back.

They’re coming down off the stage when Pete greets them, hands them a plate of ribs, and says “Go to town.” He waves at the catering table, which Brendon’s pretty sure is more due to Pete’s status than their own, even if they are the headliner. Cash and Ian take up the invitation pretty quick, and as soon as their plates are filled they head into the trailer. Spencer sits down with the ribs, and Brendon reaches over his shoulder to snag one. Or two. Or several.

“My ribs,” says Spencer, jabbing an elbow into Brendon’s hip. “Go back and get your own.”

“These ribs taste better,” Brendon says, and steals another one.

Pete laughs. Brendon hasn’t heard him laugh like that since... well, not for the last year, anyway. Pete finally seems over the divorce, his face open and unclouded, the corners of his eyes crinkling up as he grins.

“Don’t encourage him,” Spencer says with his mouth full. There’s barbecue sauce on his chin. “He’s been psycho all day. I’m gonna make Zack sit on him.”

“Won’t happen,” Brendon declares. “I have the strength of ten men. Ten, Pete Wentz. I’ve been working out.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” says Pete.

Brendon brightens. “You can?”

“No.” Pete shakes his head and begins to laugh. Spencer laughs with him. It’s reassuring.

*

When they take the stage, it’s full dark and the stage lights are out. Brendon sees Spencer, black shadow against black, seat himself and hold up his sticks. One, two, three, four, and Spencer dives into the opening beat, the lights blaze on, and Brendon runs out to a wave of screaming. He grabs the mic. “If I retreat, words, wars, and symphonies, make room we’re taking over here...” Cash pounds out the bass line, Ian shreds like there’s no tomorrow, and Brendon leans back and screams, “Let’s kill toniiiiiiight!”

Performing is like cocaine for Brendon. Not that it’s not work; Brendon sweats through his jacket before the third song is over, and even after he discards it, he’s dripping like he’s been caught in the rain. Even so, it’s the greatest job on earth.

The band fits together now. It had been rocky at the start, but by now they’re seamless. He knows without looking that Ian and Cash are facing off and bowing behind him. He knows when they start jumping. He knows when Spencer’s going to hit the crashes, and when Cash is going to hold his bass up and lick it to provoke even more frantic screaming. 

And Brendon. Brendon leaps, yells, screams, sings, throws himself a hundred percent into every action. He feels like he extends beyond his skin, like he’s going nova and radiating in every direction. He’d explode, his energy scattering every which way, but for Spencer. Spencer’s beat is solid and secure, his spirit translated into music. It gives Brendon stability, aims him like a laser in the right direction. Brendon fires off into the crowd, they reflect back to him. It’s a feedback loop he never wants to end.

It has to end, though, and towards the end of the set, things wind down and it’s breaktime for everyone else. They trail offstage, and Brendon takes the acoustic that a tech hands him. “This is a song,” he says, “off our new album, Vices and Virtues.” He waits for the cheering to die down. He’s so glad there are cheers. “I wrote this song. I had some help, though, so now I want to dedicate this song to my writing partner. He’s my bandmate, he’s my best friend, Spencer! Spencer Smith, this is for you!” There’s a flurry behind him, and Brendon grins and starts to sing. “When the world gets too heavy put it on my back...”

Halfway through the first verse he can see Spencer’s head jogging along between the stage and the barrier, and he laughs. Spencer dodges photographers and lands right in front of him, and Brendon sings to him. If they were boyfriends, it would be ridiculous; that they’re best friends makes it only slightly less ridiculous. But fuck it; Brendon’s a huge cheeseball and he doesn’t care who knows it. 

“I’m the light blinking at the end of the road, blink back to let me know,” he sings. “Blink back, Spence!” Spencer is laughing and looking up into his eyes, and flutters his eyelashes, and Brendon flutters his back. “That I’m skin and bone, just a king and a rusty throne...”

The rest of the show goes quickly, even with the bass cameo by Pete on Time to Dance, and the mass addition of all of Neon Trees to their cover of Don’t Stop Believin’. Too soon it’s time for Nearly Witches, and Brendon grinds on Cash, and runs his hand down Ian’s sweaty chest and pats his hair. “I regret ever letting you go!” he shouts into the mic, and when the song is over he runs offstage, grabs a towel on the way, and gets his ass into the trailer before the field lights come back up.

*

The afterparty is fucking awesome.

Almost every afterparty is, to tell the truth, but this one seems extra fucking awesome,  
even if none of the Trees touch alcohol. What the hell, more beer for Brendon is always good, and he kind of enjoys swilling in front of them. He never claimed to be a saint. Hah. They’re cool, though, and Tyler grins and messes up Brendon’s hair like he’s twenty years older than him instead of four.

Spencer is in the corner drinking steadily and talking with Pete. Brendon doesn’t go over for a while, content to socialize with Chris and Branden and the dancers and whoever else happens to float by. Somewhere in there he switches to whiskey, and then someone pulls out a bottle of tequila, all of which is to say that when Brendon finally does go over to Pete and Spencer, he is very, very drunk. This is why the afterparty is so awesome.

“I’m drunk,” he announces happily, dropping an arm across Spencer’s shoulders and sliding his head down Spencer’s chest. “So drunk. Hi, Pete. So, _so_ drunk.”

“Yeah, you are,” says Spencer. He pats Brendon’s head, which is now in his lap. 

“Why aren’t you this drunk?” Brendon squints up at Spencer. “You should be drunk like me. Pete, how drunk are you?”

“I’m drunk,” comes Pete’s voice, floating over the table and into Brendon’s ears. “Sit up. I want to ask you a question.” Brendon frowns. He doesn’t want to move, but he sits up anyway.

Pete lied. He’s not drunk at all. He looks happy enough, but it’s relaxed, not his cheerful belligerence when he’s had too much. “Pete Wentz, you have lied to me. You are completely sober.” Brendon points an accusing finger, then frowns again and massages the skin around his eye. 

“Stop that.” Spencer bats his hand away from his face. “Wait till you get back to the hotel and take out your contacts.”

“My eyes are dry,” Brendon complains, jerking his head away.

“Oh my God, you guys are so married,” says Pete. 

Brendon belches. “We are not. We’re just keeping up the Panic! at the Disco tradition. Don’t forget the exclamation point; it’s ours again.”

“It’s all good,” says Pete. “I want to ask you both about that. About your plans for the band.”

Brendon’s not so drunk that he doesn’t catch the strained-jaw look on Spencer again. “Why?” he asks. “We’re doing great. You saw the show tonight. We’re fucking awesome.”

“You are,” agrees Pete. “Tonight was fucking fantastic. Great crowd, great songs, great bands. Ian and Cash fit really well with you guys.”

“They’re family,” says Spencer with a small smile. “Vegas represent.”

Pete takes a pull on his beer. “Exactly,” he says. “Family. We all stick together.”

“To family!” Brendon toasts, and burps again. “Was that your question?”

“Nah, dude. What I want to know is, do you want to make them an offer?” Pete takes Brendon’s beer away.

Brendon grabs it back. “An offer for what?”

“To join the band,” says Spencer, looking steadily at Pete. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Pete says.

“But, wait, hang on.” Brendon, beer back in hand, isn’t getting this. “They’re The Cab. We’re Panic.”

“They left The Cab,” Spencer says. Brendon can feel Spencer’s tension spiking out. “And Ryan and Jon left us. That’s what you mean, right Pete? Half a band breaks off, let’s just duct-tape this other half in there and it’ll be all fixed?”

“I was just asking,” says Pete. “You guys were the ones who invited them along. I just wanted to know how it was going, if it was going to lead to anything more.” 

Spencer’s fingers are clenched white around the neck of his bottle, and even as drunk as Brendon is, he knows this has to stop. “We haven’t decided anything. We’re just taking things as they come, y’know?” He puts his hand over Spencer’s, and Spencer lets Brendon pry his fingers off the bottle. “If it comes to that, if that happens, we’ll let you know. We’ll call you first. We always call you first.”

Pete looks suddenly tired. “I’m not pushing, guys,” he says. “I’m your friend, right? We’re family. I just want you to be happy.”

“We know,” says Spencer, and Brendon nods. 

*

“I don’t want to ask them,” says Spencer. He spits into the sink.

“Ever?” asks Brendon. He rests his head on his arm and watches Spencer flossing in the mirror.

“No. Maybe. Fucking Pete.” Spencer rinses his mouth and spits again. “I don’t know. I just know right now, I don’t want to.”

“We don’t have to,” Brendon says. “It’s our band, dude. We get to decide who to ask when.”

It was the wrong thing to say; Brendon can see Spencer’s back tighten. “I’m just saying. You and me, it’s our decision. Pete can’t make us make it. We don’t even have to think about it if we don’t want. Just forget he ever said anything. We’re fine like we are. Did you hear us tonight? We were amazing. Nothing has to change if we don’t want it to.”

Spencer shuts the light off and sits on the bed beside Brendon. “I miss them,” he says abruptly.

There’s a pause. “Both of them?” Brendon asks.

Another pause. “Yeah.”

“Or just Ryan?”

Spencer’s quiet. “Both. But mostly Ryan. I mean... he’s _Ryan._ ”

Brendon knows what he means. “You’re Spencer,” he points out. Spencer rolls his eyes, and despite the headache that’s rapidly setting in behind Brendon’s eyes, he laughs. “We’ll get past it. This is, like. I dunno. Like when you break your ankle, and it heals, but then you step the wrong way and it twists and you’re like ‘Oh fuck, I broke my ankle again!’ but it’s not really broken, it just hurts, and then you realize your ankle isn’t ever going to be its unbroken self, okay, cause you _broke_ it, and it’s gonna be messed up for a long time, but it’s just sore right now, not broken again, and it’ll heal up eventually.” Brendon lifts his head up to find Spencer staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” says Spencer. “I guess you’d know about broken ankles.”

“Exactly. I am the broken ankle _king._ ” Brendon nods firmly. Spencer gives a soft laugh and slumps against the headboard. “Dude, hey. What time is it?”

Spencer pulls his phone out of the pocket of his sweats. “Two. Fuck. What time is bus call?”

“Not till eleven. Want me to sleep here tonight?”

“Fuck no.” Spencer’s smile is exhausted, but at least there’s a smile. “I got the single and I have eight hours with nothing to do but sleep, so get out of my bed and go find your own.”

Brendon’s yawn cracks his jaw. “Fine, fine. Come find me when you wake up. We’ll go get waffles.”

“Waffles. Yes. Now get out. Let me have my room.” Spencer pushes him off the bed.

“Waffles,” agrees Brendon sleepily, and closes the door behind him. If he’d known what was going to happen next, he would have said something more meaningful, like _I’ll never leave like he did_ or _we’re all the band we need_ , but he didn’t know, and he’s not very good at saying meaningful things. He likes to think that Spencer understood anyway.

 

**recitative**

Spencer dreams of vines.

They wrap around his legs and arms, twine around his waist and his neck. He should be afraid, but he’s just drowsy, and when he relaxes, the vines hold him up as if in strong and gentle arms.  
 _Steady,_ the wind hisses, _hold him, careful, don’t wake him, they need him undamaged, careful, steady, steady._ Spencer shifts into a more comfortable position, but he can’t go far. The vines have him fast.

His heart begins to pound hard and slow. He tries to throw off the covers. He can’t move. It’s an effort just to drag breath into his lungs.

_He’s waking. Shh, shh. Go to sleep, human. You’re safe, you’re protected. Sleep now._

Spencer doesn’t want to sleep. He wants out of bed, out of this room, out of the hotel into the night where he can breathe freely and shake off this dream and let his heart ease back so it’s not threatening to beat its way out of his chest. But the vines hold him tight and his eyelids are too heavy to lift.

_Sleep._

He sleeps.

*

When Spencer wakes again, he’s in the trunk of a car. He still can’t move, but he can breathe, and when he tries, he can wiggle his fingers. He’s tied up, not with the vines from his dream, but with regular rope. He squirms around, trying to find the knots. They’re high up his arms so he can barely brush them with his fingertips.

Oh fuck. He doesn’t know how this happened, but he’s pretty sure Zack is gonna kill him after he gets back safe. Had he gone out by himself? He can’t remember, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t. Ian or Cash might have; they weren’t used to the Panic-level of caution they needed now. Brendon might have, because Brendon can be a supreme idiot. But Spencer is responsible and careful. Spencer is the last person who should be kidnapped. This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair, isn’t _fair_...

Okay. He lies back and breathes, in-out-in-out until the fear cleared his mind and he could think again. Spencer’s responsible, and the responsible thing to do is to--

“Let Zack know where you are,” he says to the lid of the trunk. His phone is still in his back pocket; he can feel it pressing into his ass. It takes some maneuvering, but he works it out with his fingers as he squirms against the floor. He wriggles around to get his face to it. He has to tap the screen with his nose, but it works.

Except it doesn’t. His calls to Zack won’t go through. He tries Brendon, nudging the screen up like a dog nudging to be fed, but that won’t go through either. Spencer breathes deeply and tries not to freak out. 

The car goes over something rough-- railroad tracks, maybe? Spencer bounces with an oof, and when he’s facing the phone again, there’s Ryan’s entry. He doesn’t think twice. He dials. And the phone rings, and Spencer’s hope almost chokes him.

“Yeah?” comes a sleepy voice.

Thank God, thank fucking God. “Ryan.”

Ryan sounds as cross and unsurprised as he used to when they were kids and Spencer dragged him out of bed. “Spencer, what the fuck, it’s four a.m.”

“Ryan, shut up, listen, I’ve been fucking kidnapped, I need you to call Zack and the cops and get me the fuck out of here.”

There’s a burst of fuzz. “...everything okay?” asks Ryan.

“Oh fuck, no it’s not okay, I’m tied up in a car and I don’t know where I am, Jesus, you have to get help.” Spencer can’t hear a response. He knocks his head against the floor in frustration. “God _damn_ it!”

“...I can’t hear you. What’s going on?” Ryan sounds worried, which, good, someone else should be worried about this situation. Spencer chokes out a bleak laugh. 

“Can you hear me, Ryan? Fuck. Ryan. Call Zack. I think I’m fucked.”

There’s a garble of sound on the other end, then silence. “Ryan? Ryan, I can’t hear you.” The light from the phone dims, goes out. Spencer nudges the button but it won’t light up again. “Shit.”

Spencer rolls over onto his stomach. He has to concentrate very hard on breathing. If he doesn’t, he’s going to lose it, and that won’t help anybody. He beats his head softly against the floor. “Ryan,” he whispers, “Ryan, dammit Ryan, get help. I’m so fucked. So fucked.”

_Ryan. Help. Come back._

_Save me._


	2. Movement 1: Allegro

_movement 1: allegro_

Ryan hangs up the phone and immediately calls Alex. “He wants to meet me for dinner,” he says when Alex picks up.

Alex doesn’t have to ask who ‘he’ is. “What did you say?”

Ryan sighs. “I said yes. What else was I supposed to say?” He frowns at the leaves that blow across his shoes. It’s too early for fall. He’s not ready.

“All of them, or just him?”

“Him and Brendon. Don’t we have plans tomorrow? Aren’t we going to Lulu’s cousin’s show?”

“I’m not.” There’s a beep. “Hang on,” Alex says, “that’s Victoria. Let me call you back.”

“Yeah,” says Ryan. Alex is already gone. Ryan rubs his head under his driving cap. He knew Panic was coming to New York; he can’t remember where he heard it. Zack’s twitter? He hadn’t connected it with _him_ being in New York, though, hadn’t even considered that Spencer might read his tweets-- “@ALECKSU meet at Levy tonight?”-- and call him to meet up.

Panic’s in town. For a show. Ryan should probably go. He probably won’t.

*

Dinner is uncomfortable.

Brendon won’t shut up, as per usual, determined to make everyone have a good time by sheer force of will. Spencer can’t stop looking over at him and smiling, breaking up when Brendon lays his head on Spencer’s shoulder and does some weird thing with his hand. To Ryan, Spencer is polite. Ryan’s polite right back. If that’s the way he wants it, fine. _Ryan_ didn’t ask to meet up.

“What are you working on now?” Spencer asks during a quiet moment.

“Not much.” Ryan’s not working on anything at all. “I did a show with Ivan a couple months ago.”

“Ivan who?” asks Brendon.

“It’s the band name,” Ryan says. “You probably haven’t heard of them.”

“Yeah, no,” Brendon says. He looks over at Spencer for help.

“What’d you think of the new album?” Spencer says after a pause.

Ryan doesn’t want to think about the album. He considers answering that Ivan only has an EP out, but he’s not that big a douche. “It’s, yeah. Not my thing, obviously, but you guys put it together really well.”

There’s silence.

“How’s tour?” Ryan asks. Brendon takes that and runs with it, which means Ryan doesn’t have to talk and can suck down his tea. Spencer narrows his eyes at Ryan. Ryan knows he knows what he’s doing, but this is probably the only way they’re going to avoid a dinner of staring at each other and grimacing.

This would be so much easier if he were high.

*

When Alex comes home, Ryan is high. “I’m never doing that again,” says Ryan. He passes the pipe to Alex. “Don’t leave me alone like that.”

“They aren’t my friends,” Alex points out before taking a hit. He leans his head back and narrows his eyes.

Ryan lets that go. “What did Victoria want?”

“Eh.” Alex shrugs. “Whatever. This is good weed.” He takes another hit.

Of course it is, Ryan wants to say, when have I ever given you crappy weed? He keeps his mouth shut and takes the pipe back. It reminds him of Jon, and he wonders, not for the first time, what Jon is doing now. He hasn’t heard from him since the wedding.

*

Ryan’s running.

Branches reach out to grab him. One tears his cheek open; another catches his pants, leaving a long rip behind when Ryan pulls away. It’s dark, and his feet are wet, and he trips and falls in the stream, but he struggles back up because he has to. If he doesn’t, if he stops, the world will end. He doesn’t know how he knows this, but he knows.

The water at his feet is thick and sluggish, holding him back. He fights it, but it’s hard to move, even harder to breathe. He has to go-- he has to--

Bells chime. He sits up in bed, gasping. The bells ring again; it’s his new default ringtone, a song from that new band with the glockenspiel. He’s tangled up in his covers, but he lurches to his nightstand to pick up the phone-- 3:45, how is it so early-- and gasps “Yeah?”

“Ryan.”

“Spencer, what the fuck, it’s four a.m.”

Fuzz answers him.

“Spence.” Ryan’s wide awake now, because it’s four a.m. and Spencer’s calling. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a click. “Don’t know where--” says Spencer, then another click and the phone goes silent. Ryan looks at it. The call’s still on.

“Spencer, hello? If you’re talking, I can’t hear you. What’s going on?”

“...Ryan? Fuck. Ryan. Call Zack. I think I’m fucked.” There’s a panicky edge to Spencer’s voice. 

If Spencer is panicking, it’s time for Ryan to be terrified. “What’s happening? Where are you?” He tries to keep his voice level, not entirely succeeding. “Who are you with?”

“I can’t hear--” The phone cuts out again. This time, he’s lost the call. Ryan stabs at the number, but after one ring it goes straight to voicemail. “Motherfucker,” Ryan hisses.

“The fuck?” Alex shuffles into Ryan’s room and flips on the light. “I could hear you down the hall. Z says shut the hell up.”

Ryan looks up from his phone. “I-- sorry. Something weird happened.” 

“Yeah?” Alex looks mildly interested. 

Ryan’s aware of how he must look, hair on end and eyes wide. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm down. “I think. Fuck. I think I’m gonna go for a walk.” Ryan stands up, reaches for his jeans.

Alex shrugs. “Okay. Have fun.” He turns around and heads back down the hall.

Ryan gets dressed. He’s not sure where he’s going, but Spencer. He doesn’t play jokes like this. Back when the band was together, Spencer’s pranks were things like kidnapping Ryan’s scarves or drawing on everyone’s faces with Sharpie when they fell asleep. Stupid, but the point was, he didn’t fuck around with serious shit. Whatever’s happening, it’s bad, and Ryan has no idea what to do.

 _Call Zack_ Spencer had said, but Ryan lost Zack’s number two phones ago. He still has Brendon’s, though. He thinks. If Brendon hasn’t changed it. Once outside, Ryan picks a direction and begins walking. He takes a breath and calls Brendon.

He has to hang up and call back twice before Brendon answers. “Hlo,” comes a slurred voice.

“Is Spencer there?” Ryan asks.

“‘s wrong number. This’s Brendon.”

“It’s Ryan. Brendon, I need to talk to Spencer.”

“Ryan?” Brendon sounds a little more awake. “Hey, man. Wha’s going on?”

Ryan takes a turn at random. “I got a call from Spencer. I want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Go back to sleep,” he hears Brendon say in an aside. “Hey, back. Yeah, he got the single tonight. He’s sleeping.”

“Go see,” Ryan orders. Brendon yawns, but obeys, getting up and tripping on the edge of the bed before opening the door. Strange how old patterns are so easy to fall back into.

Brendon mutters something and knocks on the door. “Spence. Hey. Ryan wants to talk to you.” There’s a pause. Another knock. “Spencer, wake up. Dude, come on.” Knock. “Spence?” Brendon’s sounding more awake, and worried now. 

“He said to call Zack,” says Ryan. _I think I’m fucked._ “Where are you staying?”

“We’re at the Marriott East Side, in midtown.” Brendon knocks. “Zack, hey Zack, get up.”

“I’m coming over,” says Ryan, and hangs up.

At this time of the morning, it only takes Ryan half an hour to get there. No one notices when he walks in. Zack is talking very low and very fast on his phone, Brendon is pacing and talking very loudly on his phone, and Ian and Cash are sitting on a bed looking scared. Ian’s the first one to notice Ryan, and that only when Ryan sits down beside him.

“Hey,” says Ian, tapping his foot nervously. “I guess you heard.”

Ryan gives him a sharp look. “ _I_ told _them._ Spencer called me, and it sounded weird, so I woke Brendon up and he found him gone.”

“Oh,” says Ian. “Okay then.” He looks down at his hands, squeezes them together. Ryan suddenly feels like a dick. He ignores it. “Have they heard anything new?”

“The cops are on their way,” says Cash. “I guess it wouldn’t normally be a huge deal, someone only gone for a couple hours. They said he probably went out for a walk and shut off his phone, but...” Right. They all know Spencer would never do that. He’s a goddamn professional.

“Zack’s been yelling at them for the last half hour,” Ian says. “They’re probably coming over to shut him up. I guess they’ll need to talk to you, you were the last person to hear from him.”

“I knew you’d want to know,” says Brendon, stopping beside the bed. “They’re being dickbags; can you get someone to make sure they know this is fucking serious?”

 _Pete_ , mouths Ian. Ryan stares at him until Ian’s eyes slide away. He knows it’s Pete. Who else would Brendon call? Of course it’s Pete.

“So you lost Spencer,” says Ryan when Brendon hangs up.

“What?” Brendon looks confused. “I didn’t-- he was here, I said goodnight at the door, how is this my fault?”

Ryan doesn’t answer that, just looks at Brendon with an eyebrow half-raised. Brendon scowls and turns his back. Ryan feels he’s made his point.

Zack gives Ryan a distracted hug when he gets off the phone, tells them all to sit tight, then calls someone else. Ryan sits next to Brendon, and when Brendon’s leg won’t stop twitching, Ryan puts his hand on his knee without thinking. He pulls it back when they both realize it. “Sorry,” mumbles Ryan.

“No,” says Brendon. “No, it’s cool.” He doesn’t look at Ryan. After a second, his leg begins to twitch again.

“I’m gonna go get coffee,” says Ian. He stands up, and Cash gets up too.

“The hell you are,” Zack says, a hand over the phone. “You’re keeping your ass right there where I can see it at all times.” Ian and Cash look at each other. They sit back down.

“I’ll go,” says Ryan. He could use coffee anyway, and Zack isn’t paid to keep him from disappearing anymore. Cash looks at him gratefully. Ian doesn’t look at him at all.

There’s a Peet’s in the lobby; Ryan loads up with every kind of tripleshot on the menu. Balancing a carrier in each hand, he rides back up to their room to find Zack still on the phone and Brendon still pacing. Ian and Cash jump up when he enters. Brendon takes a cup without looking, sips it. He shakes his head. “That’s Jon’s order.” He gives it back to Ryan and grabs another cup. Ryan looks at the rejected coffee and takes a drink. Brendon’s right.

The police show up as dawn is breaking to question them all. Ryan goes over and over the call-- Could you hear anything else? Did Spencer sound drugged? Tell us what he said again-- until the words sound meaningless in his head, _help_ and _call_ and _fucked_ and _Ryan_ all blurring together. When they leave, he sags back against the headboard for a minute. If he can just block everything out for a little while, maybe it’ll all make sense. But Zack’s back on the phone, yelling at someone else, and Brendon is pacing and jittering and loud, and Ian and Cash just look miserable, and suddenly Ryan just needs to get out.

“I’m gonna go get some breakfast,” he says. Cash nods. “I’ll come back,” Ryan tells him. “Don’t let people leave without me.”

“I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while,” says Cash.

*

The hotel’s restaurant tastes no better or worse than any of the hundreds Ryan’s eaten in over the years. He orders eggs and toast, although his stomach is so tight he doesn’t know how much he’ll be able to get down.

He messes with the eggs for the next forty-five minutes. Spencer is fine, he tells himself. Spencer is always fine. It’s Ryan who was always the fucked-up one, pulled out of any number of catastrophes by Spencer and his aggressive, raging normalcy. Spencer is fine because Spencer cannot be anything other than fine. Even his crises, like breaking up with Haley, are normal. Disappearing without a trace is not normal, ergo, that’s not what happened to Spencer. 

But the fact remains that Spencer is gone. And this is so unlikely as to be unthinkable. If it were Alex, it would make sense. Alex would show up a month later in Ibiza and wonder why everyone was worried. If it were Pete, they’d figure the devil finally showed up to claim the soul Pete sold him long ago. 

_Don’t know where._

_Call Zack._

_I think I’m fucked._

Ryan wonders if anyone’s called Spencer’s family. He wonders if he should. He wonders if they’d recognize his voice.

Just as he’s pulling out his phone to deliberate over it, it rings. It startles Ryan badly enough that he almost drops it. The number’s not one he recognizes, an LA area code. He answers.

“Ryan, it’s Gabe.”

Ryan almost says _Gabe who?_ before it clicks in. “Hey.”

“I heard the news.”

Of course he did. Gabe’s the first person Pete would call. “Yeah.” Ryan frowns at his coffee and stirs it with his fork.

“He said Spencer called you?” Gabe’s voice is tense. “What did he say?”

Again. “Ryan, call Zack, I think I’m fucked,” Ryan repeats flatly. 

“That’s all?”

“Jesus _fuck_ , Gabe, it’s not like we chatted about how our day went!” A nearby waiter flinches. Ryan waves at him to put the coffeepot down and go. 

“Right. Okay. All right.” Gabe takes a deep breath down the line. “I want you to do something for me.”

This is unexpected. “What?” asks Ryan.

“Go to Port Elizabeth. There’s a guy named Daisy there.”

“Port what?”

“Elizabeth. Don’t pretend you haven’t heard of Jersey.”

“You want me to go to the docks in Jersey and meet some guy named Daisy.” 

“Yeah. He has two-tone hair, he’s probably wearing a leather jacket that looks like someone attacked him with a Beadazzler. Combat boots, uh, navy scarf. Glasses. He may be eating a banana.”

“I would do this why?” Ryan’s tone is bitchy, and he doesn’t give a shit. He’s not in the mood to help Gabe with his dealer or whoever, Gabe who hasn’t spoken to him in over a year. Ryan’s got his own sources; he doesn’t need to make nice with Gabe’s, and he certainly doesn’t need to be bothered running Gabe’s errands at a time like this.

Gabe doesn’t get bitchy back, though. “I think he can help. He might know something about all this, and if he doesn’t, he might know who does.”

“Why?”

“Just--” Gabe blows out a breath. “Just go. If he doesn’t, so the fuck what, you’ve spent a few hours in Jersey. If he does, it’s going to be important.”

“So why don’t you go talk to him?” Ryan shreds his last piece of toast. 

“I can’t. He’s not talking to me. Also, I’m in Dubai.”

Of course he is. “What am I supposed to say to this Daisy guy? Hi, my friend disappeared, apparently you know something about this?”

“I don’t give a fuck what you tell him,” snaps Gabe, patience finally exhausted. “Just go talk to him. If he’d listen to me, I’d call him, but he won’t, and he responds better if he sees people in person anyway. Tell him about Spencer, and that it might have to do with what was going on six months ago.”

“Explain,” says Ryan.

“No,” says Gabe. “Goodbye.”

Ryan remembers the days of dial tones. He kind of misses them.

*

It takes Ryan ten minutes to tell Brendon he’s taking off, and another hour to dissuade Brendon from going with him. Zack finally settles it by threatening to sit on Brendon to keep him still. “There is no way, no goddamn way that you’re stepping outside this room. Do you want me to tie you to the bed? Don’t think I won’t do it.” 

“I’ll be back,” says Ryan, and wonders how it suddenly feels so important to stay close to Brendon and everyone else. “It’s just a thing Gabe thought might help. I have no fucking idea why, so don’t ask, but you guys have everything else under control here.” As under control as things can be when they’re completely fucked up. “I’m just going to check it out. I’m coming back.”

“Fine. Okay. Fine. Just.” Brendon stares at Ryan and flips his phone around in his hand, over and over. “Stay in touch. Okay? Don’t--”

“I won’t,” says Ryan. “I’ll call you later.”

Brendon grabs Ryan and hugs him so tightly Ryan’s breath is squeezed out of his chest. “I don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispers, “but do something, okay? _Fix_ this.”

“Yeah,” says Ryan. He hugs Brendon too, for just a second. “I’ll let you know. Whatever’s going on. I’ll come back.”

From subway to train to bus, it takes Ryan two hours to get to Newark. He spends the time staring out the window, going over Gabe’s words and trying to figure out why the hell he thinks a guy named Daisy-- _Daisy_ , for fuck’s sake, gay as hell, and if Ryan Ross can point fingers that’s gotta be pretty goddamn gay-- who as far as Ryan knows doesn’t know any of the people involved in this whole clusterfuck, is going to be able to do a damn bit of good.

_Don’t know where._

_Call Zack._

_I think I’m fucked._

The port is loud and dirty, shipping containers in a rusted rainbow of hues stacked as far as Ryan can see. Cranes loom overhead, plucking containers from ships and lowering them to the dock, and there’s a lot of shouting, a loudspeaker squalling words Ryan can’t make out. He can’t tell where to begin searching. He’s not sure there is a place to begin.

He makes it as far as the first pier before a large man with a grease smear on his face stops him. “Employees only,” he says. “You work here?” 

Ryan restrains his frustration so he doesn’t get the shit kicked out of him. This guy looks like he could do it without even noticing. “I’m looking for a friend,” he says.

“Uh-huh. Well, you can find a friend when we’re done here.” He gives Ryan an up-and-down gaze, and Ryan is simultaneously irritated that the guy would even think that and fascinated by the concept. It’d make for a good short story; he can see the metaphor without even calling for it. But the guy’s already turned his back, and Ryan can only huff back the way he came.

He tries another pier, and another, and each time, someone catches him. They threaten to call the cops, and no matter where Ryan looks, he can’t find anyone who looks like the Daisy Gabe described. His hands grind into fists. This was probably a joke. Gabe is a fuckhead, and Ryan is going to fly to Dubai and kill him, shove him into the ocean and hold his head underwater until he stops struggling. 

Before he does, though, he’ll take another shot. He goes down the next pier until he’s stopped. “I’m looking for a friend,” he says again, “my friend Daisy, maybe you know him?”

It works. “Oh, Daisy, yeah,” the guy says. “He’s up in the office trailer, up there.” And it was that easy. Jesus. Ryan really does make things harder than they have to be, and that makes acid rise up in his gut. Every second he’s wasted is a second that Spencer’s not back.

He knocks at the office trailer door. There’s no answer, but it’s not locked, so Ryan eases the door open. The man inside is leaning against a table, sipping a cup of coffee and looking over a spread-out newspaper. He looks up at Ryan, seemingly without surprise. “Hey,” he says, and takes a drink.

“Are you Daisy?” Ryan demands.

“I am,” says the man, and he’s simultaneously just as Gabe described and nothing like Ryan expected. With a name like Daisy, Ryan had figured on someone skinny, fluty, giggly. Real Daisy is solid and solemn and could probably snap Ryan’s head off at the neck with one hand. This Daisy has the black hair layered over blond, glasses, boots, and a jacket half-covered in shiny metal studs, but if someone attacked him with a Beadazzler, Daisy probably stomped his head in afterwards. 

“I was--” Ryan can’t think of how to start. “Gabe Saporta said I should come talk to you.”

“Gabe Saporta can go to hell,” says Daisy calmly, and turns back to his newspaper.

“Okay, yeah, I agree, he’s a douchebag, but--”

“Just tell him to go to hell.”

“He said you’d say that--”

“Bye.”

“But he said you could help,” Ryan growls, “and if you will shut the fuck up for a second and let me explain what happened--” Ryan stops, expecting to be interrupted again, but Daisy just blinks at him and takes another drink. Goddammit. Ryan is confused and lost and, somewhere underneath, scared out of his fucking mind. “Okay. My friend Spencer...” There’s no possible way that this won’t sound bizarre, so he flattens the desperation out of his voice and brazens it through. “Is missing. I got a weird call from him, and it sounds like he’s been. Kidnapped.” There. The word’s finally out. “The cops are looking, but I talked to Gabe and he said it might have to do with something that happened six months ago. He said you’d know.”

Daisy’s expression doesn’t change, but at least he’s still looking at Ryan. “Did he?” 

“Yeah.” Ryan’s hands are clenched tight again, and he shoves them into his pockets. “Do you?”

Daisy looks meditative. “I might. If it’s related to that, it’s possible. Or at least I can find out who’d know.”

 _How_ , Ryan wants to ask, and _why_ and _where the fuck is Spencer?_ but he tries to match Daisy’s cool with his own. “Great. Super. Can you tell me, then?”

“No,” says Daisy after a long look. “No, I don’t think so. You can come with, though.” He folds up the paper and tosses the coffee cup into the trash.

“Oh. Thanks.” Ryan doesn’t need Daisy’s permission to go anywhere, but he follows Daisy out of the trailer.

*

Daisy doesn’t speak to Ryan, and Ryan doesn’t try to speak to Daisy, until they’re seated on the train back into the city. “So who are you?” Daisy asks.

“Ryan. Ross.” Ryan eyes Daisy, waiting for the inevitable goddamn door quote, but Daisy just nods. “What do you do, Ryan Ross?”

“I’m a musician,” says Ryan. He is; even though he hasn’t been writing or recording or playing, he’s still who he always was. 

“Your friend, Spencer? Is he a musician too?”

“Yeah. In-- he’s in a different band, though.”

“You both live here?”

“I do,” Ryan says. “Sometimes. He doesn’t; he just came in on tour.”

Daisy nods thoughtfully. “What’s the band’s name?”

“Panic at the Disco.” Or, well, Panic!, but Ryan regrets the exclamation point and likes to pretend it never existed. 

Daisy nods again. 

“Do you know them?” asks Ryan.

“I don’t know most modern bands.” Daisy puts his hands up behind his head and closes his eyes. Ryan stares out the window and drums his fingers in a stabbing rhythm against the armrest. Noon sunlight streams through the tinted window, making him sweat.

Daisy gets off at Penn Station and strides up the staircase, Ryan trotting to keep up. He follows him down another set of stairs into a tunnel, around a corner, down a concourse and down again. They end up in a subway station, but Ryan’s not sure which line it is, and the sign is too graffitied to read.

Daisy lights up a cigarette and leans against a post. “Can I have one of those?” Ryan asks. Daisy hands over the pack and the lighter without comment. Ryan sucks in his first breath of smoke, feeling the nicotine flicking down his nerves already. The tightness in his stomach eases. He really wishes he had some weed right now.

The subway train that rolls into the station is covered in graffiti. Ryan’s never seen anything like it outside photoessays from the 1980s. A neon pink _PUCK_ covers half a car, with a black _HRNDKING_ across the door. Daisy and Ryan step into a car tagged _JARETH_ in bright blue and green. The car is empty. Daisy sits down and pulls a foot up onto the bench beside him. Ryan sits cautiously, looking around the car. The ads have been sprayed over as well, in block letters that are impossible to make out. 

PENN STATION flashes by, and they’re in a tunnel, the only light coming from the sputtering fluorescents overhead. Ryan looks for the line map, but the glass over it has been smashed and the map is gone. This car, this whole train must have somehow gotten lost when they overhauled the system. Graffiti’s supposed to be cleaned off within hours, and he’s pretty sure vandalism is enough to take a train out of service till it’s fixed.

The next station is dark, and they race through it. The next is lit, but they don’t stop there either, and Ryan can’t make out the station signs. “Where are we going?” he asks Daisy.

“This bookstore I know,” Daisy replies, and stubs his cigarette out on the seat beside him.

Ryan wants to ask more questions, but he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter anyway. Spencer’s been kidnapped; what the fuck does it matter that he doesn’t know what station they’re in? 

The train finally stops in another darkened station, but here the doors open and Daisy and Ryan get out. Ryan drops his cigarette in the gap between car and platform, and there’s a tiny squawk just before the car doors shut. Ryan turns around, but he can’t see anything, and then the train is whooshing past him and Daisy’s walking away, so Ryan lets it go and runs after him.

They emerge into a canyon of skyscrapers so tall that only a thin ray of sunshine falls onto the sidewalk. The traffic is light, although Ryan narrowly misses getting hit by a cab when Daisy leads him into the middle of the street. Daisy ignores the honking and heads to an alley between two buildings. Ryan looks back at the cab, which races away. He barely catches Daisy before he disappears into a door down the alley.

Inside the door it’s shadowy, and the skyscrapers are made of books. They tower above them, in front of them, on either side, so that both Daisy and Ryan have to step carefully to avoid bringing a collapse upon themselves. The stacks are haphazard, turning the shop into a labyrinth. Ryan follows Daisy, who seems to know where he’s going. He’d better; Ryan will have no idea how to get out of here if he doesn’t.

Somewhere at the heart of the labyrinth, in a dim, dusty light from the streaky skylight, a woman with golden highlights in her dark skin and an impressive wave of hair sits behind a three-sided wooden desk. She holds up a finger as they emerge. “Almost done with my chapter.” Her eyes move along the page faster than Ryan can follow. He stands silent with Daisy while she scans along the next page and the next, until she flips the book facedown. “Can I help you?” Before either of them speak, a delighted smile breaks out on her face. “Daisy! Hi!”

“Hey, beautiful lady,” says Daisy, coming up to kiss her on the cheek. “How’ve you been?”

“Okay,” she says, “mostly okay, we had a little bit of trouble with a supplier last week, but it all got straightened out. When did you get into town?”

“Early this morning. Came in on a ship from the Phillippines, and I was looking for my next ride when this guy showed up.” He waves Ryan forward. Ryan steps up, careful not to kick the stepstool into the teetering book mountain beside the desk. “This is Ryan. Ryan, Janelle.”

“Hello, Ryan,” she says warmly, reaching out to press his hand. “What are you looking for?”

“My friend,” he says, only afterward realizing that she probably wanted to sell him a book.

She looks sidelong at Daisy. “I’m pretty sure he’s not here. Though you might want to check in the back; I heard an avalanche back there yesterday.”

Daisy smiles with only half his mouth. “Actually,” he says, “we need to talk to all of you. Is everyone else here?”

“Oh yeah, hang on. Amanda!” she shouts, sending a stack tottering dangerously. “Bebe! We have a consult!”

“Bebe?” asks Daisy.

“She’s new,” says Janelle. “Ashlee left last month.”

“Damn. You don’t seem to be able to keep that slot filled.”

“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “Lyn-Z wanted babies, Alicia had a guy. This job isn’t for everyone.”

“Amanda has a guy,” Daisy says, but Janelle just waves a hand. “That’s different.”

Just as Ryan’s wondering what makes that different, another woman comes out from behind a tower. She’s pale, wearing a faded and ripped chiffon dress and dark blue lipstick. When she comes to the desk, Ryan sees her eyebrows are drawn on in sharp, jagged strokes. She smiles when she sees Daisy, revealing a smudge of blue on her teeth. “Hey, babe.” She hugs him, lifting a foot behind her like a 1950s cartoon. Daisy kisses her on the cheek as well.

“This is Ryan,” says Janelle, and the eyebrow woman salutes and winks at him. Ryan is pretty good at taking weirdness in stride, but usually it’s his own weirdness that people are dealing with. Next to Amanda, he’s practically normal. He’s not sure he likes that feeling.

“Heeeey,” says a third voice. A small woman with a vast mane of dark hair descends a staircase Ryan hadn’t seen until now. Her leather pants squeak as she trips up to the group. “Are we working today?”

“Bebe, this is Daisy and Ryan,” Janelle says. “We know Daisy. Ryan’s new.”

Bebe holds out her hand. Ryan has the odd feeling he should kiss it, but he shakes it instead. “I’m new too,” she says. “We can be new together!”

“Won’t that be nice,” he says, but he’s so lost at this point that the acid is all drained out of his voice, and he sounds sincere. 

“So what are we doing?” Janelle asks. “Finding your friend? He lost a friend,” she says to the other two. 

“Are you sure he’s lost?” says Amanda. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Amanda, Jesus,” Janelle says, frowning.

“I’m just saying.”

“There’s such a thing as tact, is what I’m saying.”

“He’s not _lost_. He was kidnapped,” Ryan says to Amanda.

“Gabe thinks it has to do with the melusines,” Daisy says. He taps one of the book stacks and sets it wobbling, and Amanda puts out her hand automatically to steady it.

“Why?” asks Janelle. Daisy shrugs. “Who knows. It’s Gabe.”

“Fair enough,” says Amanda.

“So we need to know what happened,” Daisy says. “And where he is now. They need him back.”

“Why?” Amanda rubs at her teeth, looks down at the smudge of blue on her finger.

Ryan stares at her in disbelief. “What do you mean why? He’s my friend. He was kidnapped. Of course I need him back, what the fuck.”

Janelle pinches her forehead. “Amanda. Stop talking. She didn’t mean it that way,” she says to Ryan. “You’re upset. It’s okay. Don’t worry, if he’s out there, we can find him.”

“Are you, like, professional kidnap victim retrievers or something?” They don’t look like it, but Ryan won’t judge them based on looks. Even though they really, really don’t look like it.

“Um, not really. More like professional finders. It’s kind of complicated.”

“Hey babe, are you good to go on this?” Amanda asks Bebe. She boosts herself onto the desk and thuds her heels against it.

“Oh, I got this,” says Bebe. “I am set, okay.” While Janelle brings out a candlestick from under the desk, Bebe sits on the other end from Amanda and spins to face the center. Janelle puts the candelabra in the middle, lights the three candles and places three saucers equidistant from the base, then draws up her chair to sit.

Ryan looks at them suspiciously. It looks like some kind of ritual, and that’s not gonna be helpful. He doesn’t know why people think it is, blessing each other in the name of the Goddess or Jesus or Odin or whatever. If there were gods... well, let’s just say Ryan’s life would have been a hell of a lot different. Apparently Daisy can read his mind, though, because he bumps Ryan’s shoulder and says “Hey. Even if you don’t believe in it, don’t discount it. Heaven, earth, your philosophy Horatio, the whole thing. Give it a chance.”

“He’s _out there_ ,” Ryan hisses. “This is a waste of time.”

“It’s already been half a day. The cops are out there, right? You can take fifteen minutes and let people try and help you.”

“Fine,” grumbles Ryan, “fine.” Suddenly the air in the room feels still, as if every book is holding its breath. Dust dances through the weak sunbeams, and with the candles lit, the room seems darker at the edges.

“Coltsfoot,” says Amanda. “Yarrow. Althaea.” Each of them picks up a pinch of the leaves in the saucer before them and sprinkles it over a candle. They close their eyes and take each others’ hands.

Ryan looks at Daisy, who has squatted down on the floor, focused entirely on the three women. Ryan doesn’t know what he should do, what’s expected of him, so he pulls the stepstool over and sits.

“What are you looking for?” asks Bebe.

“Spencer,” says Ryan. It comes out in a whisper, and he clears his throat. “My friend. Spencer.”

“Describe him,” says Janelle.

“Um. He’s about my height, so not quite six feet, light brown hair, uh, he’s got a beard--”

“No,” says Amanda, and even with her eyes closed she makes Ryan nervous. “Not what he looks like. Describe _him._ ”

Ryan has to pause, regroup. It’s been too long. He and Spencer were so close they could almost read each other’s thoughts. Now Ryan has new friends, Spencer has his own, and what Ryan knows is uncertain at best. So he goes back. As far back as he can go.

“He’s strong. Not physically, though I guess he’s always been stronger than me. I mean, inside. He’s the-- he was the strongest of all of us.” He remembers Brent, and the phone call where he and Brendon hadn’t dared to say a word. “He’s shy. Not shy exactly, but he doesn’t do well in big groups. He never liked the big parties, or meeting the fans. He wants to stay in the background. I think that’s why he wanted drums, when we were kids.”

“Talk about that,” says Bebe. A faint smile touches her lips and Ryan suspects he’s being made fun of, but he answers anyway.

“It was Christmas. I was thirteen, he was twelve. My dad gave me a guitar. He knew I’d been wanting one. I went over to show Spence, and he showed me the drum set his parents gave him. I’d been telling Spencer for months how I wanted to play guitar in a band, and he’d told his parents he wanted drums so we could play together.” Ryan’s hand rubs at his other wrist. “He takes care of people,” he says abruptly. “Everyone he’s close to, he protects them.”

“Steadfast,” murmurs Janelle.

“Loyal,” Bebe agrees.

“Constant,” says Amanda.

They take a breath as one. The candles are still. In the silence, Ryan can hear a scratching sound, a rattle of paper and a squeak. He tries to keep from jumping when he sees a tiny form skittering across the floor, but he can’t quite keep the horrified squawk inside. He looks anxiously at the women on the desk, but they’re serene and undisturbed. Daisy eyes him with irritation. Ryan closes his mouth and glares at a book by his foot. 

Suddenly, the breath the room is holding lets out. The candles gutter; one barely recovers. The three women exhale, open their eyes, and let their hands drop. Amanda puts a hand over her heart. “I’m getting too damn old for this,” she says.

“What?” Ryan asks. He can’t stay quiet. “What happened? What did you do?”

It takes a minute for them to answer. Bebe’s the first to speak. “They came through the window,” she says.

Ryan scowls, because this is _bullshit_. His voice comes out flat. “Who? What window?”

“In the hotel,” says Bebe.

“Spencer’s window? He was on the eighth floor, and the window doesn’t open, so how the hell did they manage that?” Wait. Had he said Spencer was in a hotel?

“None of that matters,” says Janelle. “A window’s an opening. An opening can always be entered.”

“Fine, okay, but who are they?” Ryan demands. He gets to his feet. “Will somebody tell me what the _fuck_ has happened? In English, please, not some fucking mystical magic-eight-ball bullshit. If I don’t get some actual answers, I’ll--” He just stands there and vibrates in frustration, because he can’t think of anything to back up the threat, and he has been awake since four this morning, and he is seriously _over_ this whole thing by now. He’s angry at Gabe for sending him all over the tri-state area, at Zack for letting Ryan out of the room while he kept everyone else safe, at Ian and Cash for slotting into the empty places, at Brendon for being so _fucking Brendon_ , at Daisy and everyone else for dragging him all over the place and expecting him to believe in mystical fuckery, and at Spencer for getting kidnapped in the first place and starting this whole damn mess.

“Hey,” Daisy says. Ryan looks down to see Daisy’s hand grasping his ankle. “Sit the fuck back down. Or I will punch you in the face.”

Ryan’s still trembling with outrage, but he sits. Daisy might be kidding, but his face and voice don’t give any hint.

“There were two,” says Bebe. “One was Joel, I’m pretty sure. I couldn’t see him, but he felt like Joel. The other one...” She shrugs. “Benji, I guess.”

“That means van Vleet,” says Daisy. “Why?”

“I saw Spencer, outside in a clearing,” Janelle says. Ryan’s attention is arrested. “He’s not in pain,” she says to Ryan. “He’s asleep. He doesn’t feel anything. He’s unharmed.”

It’s ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. But he’s supposed to give it a chance, so “Can you talk to him?” Ryan asks. “Can he tell you where he is?”

She shakes her head. “All I can do is watch, and not even that for long.” Her eyes are liquid with sympathy. It makes Ryan feel a little better.

“I saw war.”

All eyes turn to Amanda.

“Battle,” she says. “Flashes of death, and a bright beam that shattered everything in its path. Trolls, goblins, gnomes, dybbuks, pain and anger, fear and blood.” As she speaks, blood begins to run from the corner of her mouth. She licks it away, hardly noticing. Ryan blinks.

“When?” Janelle’s the first to break the silence.

“I don’t know,” Amanda says. “Soon. Not tomorrow-soon. But... soon.” The blood smears when she licks it again.

“Well,” says Daisy. He rises up to his feet in one motion. “That was unexpected.”

Ryan lets out a sharp laugh. “I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand down his face, “unexpected isn’t the word I would have chosen.”

Daisy lifts one eyebrow a fraction. “Thanks for your help,” he says to the women. “Ryan. Pay the Ladies.”

Ryan reaches for his wallet, but Janelle shakes her head. “What?” asks Ryan, near exasperation.

“You don’t pay a sybil with money,” says Bebe. “It has to be personal. Something of value.”

“An eye,” says Amanda. “Or a toenail, if you can rip it out in one piece.”

Janelle rolls her eyes. “We don’t need any more toenails, Amanda, damn.” To Ryan, she says “A memory. That would work.”

“I already told you about--” Ryan begins, but Bebe jumps down and puts her fingers to Ryan’s lips. “Not one you want to keep,” she says. “One you can spare. You’re not sharing it, you’re giving it to us.”

“I don’t--” Ryan sighs. Just another fucked-up thing in this fucked-up day. “Okay. How does it work?”

Bebe puts her hand out. Ryan takes it. “Close your eyes,” she says, “and remember.”

_It’s summertime, and Ryan’s twelve, running barefoot down the street at midnight. Spencer’s house isn’t far. The moon’s out, but he could find his way in the dark, around the back to Spencer’s room, Spencer’s window. He knocks._

_The light flicks on, and Spencer opens the window. His eyelashes are stuck together, and when he blinks, his eyelids tug and won’t open all the way. Ryan slides in and Spencer shuts the window behind him. He stumbles back to bed, holding the covers up so Ryan can get in, and turns the light off when Ryan’s safe beside him._

Ryan opens his eyes to see Bebe looking at him with a softness he hasn’t seen on anyone’s face in a long time. “You miss him.” She pulls her hand back and closes it. “Thank you.”

“I.” Ryan can’t think of what to say. “Thanks,” he says when the pause has become too long.

“We’d better go,” Daisy says to the three. “We appreciate all your help. I’m going to go check some stuff out, and I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Good,” says Janelle. “Thank you. We’ll tell you if we hear anything else.”

Daisy nods, gives Amanda her odd little salute, and jerks his head for Ryan to follow him out.

*

Daisy takes Ryan down the alley and across the next street, then strides, making Ryan almost run to keep up. “Do you know what happens,” Daisy says, not in the least out of breath, “if you’re rude to a witch?”

Right now, Ryan doesn’t care. He’s panting, and has to break into a jog every few seconds. “No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Not if you don’t want to hear,” says Daisy. He turns a corner, and Ryan runs after him. “But I recommend against it. Strongly recommend against it. You’re lucky they liked you.”

Witches. Yeah. Not that he believes that, but it was weird. “So you believe in that?”  
“Do you remember what you paid?” Daisy asks in return.

“Memory. A memory,” Ryan says.

“What memory?”

Ryan thinks back. He held Bebe’s hand, and then-- “I don’t know,” he says.

“Well, if they have the power to take memories, I’d believe it when they say they have the power to see visions. Wouldn’t you?” Daisy stops and gestures at an opening in the sidewalk Ryan hadn’t seen. “Your stop.”

“Wait, what?” Ryan puts his hand on the railing, which, how did he not see that? “Where are we going?”

“You’re going home,” says Daisy. “You’re tired, and you’re pissed off, and I don’t entirely blame you, but I’m not going anywhere with you until you have time to deal with your shit and stop being a dick.”

It’s the kind of matter-of-fact bitching out that Ryan hasn’t gotten in a long time. It’s almost comforting. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No.” Daisy takes off in his weird ambling stride.

“Where are you going?” Ryan calls after him. Daisy shrugs, turns the corner, and disappears.

 

*

Ryan _is_ tired. He hadn’t realized how tired. He somehow makes it down the stairs and onto a train, where he zones out until he finds himself walking up the steps to his building. 

Alex and Z are in the living room watching Batman reruns. Ryan stares at it for a moment. The primary colors make his eyes hurt. “Hey,” says Z, reaching out to him. “Come watch with us. This is a good one.”

Ryan sits down beside her. She puts her feet in his lap. He can’t tear his eyes from the screen, though he can barely comprehend what’s going on.

“Where’ve you been?” asks Z, nudging him with her toe. “We even got up early this morning, but you were already gone.”

Ryan doesn’t want to be dramatic, but he can’t figure out how else to break the news. “Spencer was kidnapped last night.”

Alex jerks his head around. Z’s mouth has actually fallen open. “You’re shitting me,” says Alex finally.

“No.” _BIFF_ says the TV.

“Oh my God,” says Z. “What happened?”

“Just, I don’t know. They got into his hotel room or something.” Through the window, apparently, which makes as little sense as the first time Ryan heard it. “He called me while it was happening. We got cut off.”

“Fuck,” Alex says. “Crazed fan? Jesus, I hope he’s okay. Do they have any clues?”

Ryan has no idea how to respond to that. He just shakes his head.

“Are you.” Z hesitates. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” says Ryan, “not really, no.” And it’s saying it that means it’s real now, that Ryan was such a dick to him and now Spencer is _gone_ and might never come back. He bends over double, tries to breathe deep and steady, pressing his chest against his knees like it’ll keep everything contained small enough to deal with. It doesn’t. His breath shudders out and he feels like he’s going to be sick. He hugs his thighs and squeezes his eyes shut, counts to ten, then ten again.

Z wraps around him and hugs, while Alex sits next to him and presses a leg against his. “It’ll be fine,” whispers Z, “I’m sure it’ll be fine. They’ll find him, you’ll see, and nothing bad will happen.”

“I need,” says Ryan when he can talk again. “I need to sleep. I’ve been up a long time.”

“Let’s go,” Z says, and she and Alex get Ryan up between them and walk him to bed. Z gets in on one side, Alex on the other. Between them, Ryan can keep himself from flying apart.

*

When Ryan wakes up the next morning, his mouth tastes like the bottom of a dumpster, and his eyelids stick to his eyeballs when he tries to open them. Z is beside him, mouth open and drooling a little on the pillow. Alex is gone. 

Ryan sits up, and it hits him. He leans forward, hands on his knees, and breathes hard until the feeling passes. His stomach clenched. He remembers he hasn't eaten in over 24 hours. He doesn't really want to now, but he figures he should. There might still be leftover Thai, if no one ate it yesterday. Ryan's stomach lurches once, then settles down. He can probably handle the Thai. 

In the kitchen, Alex is making pancakes. Ryan blinks. He's never seen Alex cook. He didn't know he knew how. 

"Hey," Alex says, frowning at the pancake turner. He tries to flip one and ends up folding it on itself. "Fuck."

“There’s a trick to it,” says Ryan. His voice is rough.

“I found a recipe online.” Alex looks annoyed. “They’re supposed to be fluffy. I couldn’t find baking soda, though. I guess that’s what makes it fluffy.”

“I think there’s some in the fridge,” Ryan says. He opens the door. “Yeah. Yellow box.” There’s an air of unreality about this whole conversation.

“Oh. You cook with that? I thought it was to clean the fridge or something.”

“Yeah, I dunno.” Ryan closes the door. “Whatever. It’s okay.”

“These are gonna suck,” pronounces Alex. “Maybe we should go out.”

Ryan’s gut tightens again. “I don’t think I can. I have to-- oh fuck. _Fuck._ ” Alex makes an enquiring noise. “I was supposed to call Brendon last night. Shit.” Ryan strides back into the living room for the illusion of privacy and pulls out his phone.

Brendon answers on the first ring. “You _asshole._ ”

“Yeah.” Ryan doesn’t want to say it, but he does anyway. “Sorry.”

“I thought you were-- fuck!” Brendon lowers his voice. “I thought something happened. I knew that you’d call if you could, so I started panicking after dinner and panicked all night and pretty much right up until now. What the _fuck._ ”

Ryan closes his eyes. Brendon-guilt is something he has not missed. “I had a... strange day. I needed to decompress.”

“Oh, well that’s just fine then,” says Brendon sarcastically. “You decompress. Play a few rounds of Guitar Hero, maybe take in a movie--”

“Oh God, _fuck you._ ” Ryan can’t see anything for a minute. “You have no _fucking_ idea what’s going on. None.”

“I was freaking the hell out!” Brendon sounds outraged. “And you apparently don’t give a shit, which shouldn’t surprise me, because you never did--”

“Oh my _God_ , I can’t believe I left the band and moved away but everything is _still about you._ ” Alex comes into the room, and Ryan waves him away. “I’m busy looking for Spencer. You stay there in your nice comfy hotel room with your fucking babysitter, and let me handle things. I’ll call you if I need a diva fit.” Before Brendon can respond, Ryan hangs up and shuts off his phone. He’s breathing like he’s dropped out of a race.

Alex stands in the doorway, plate in hand. “Breakfast.”

The pancakes look deflated. “I’m not hungry,” Ryan says. “But thanks.”

Z comes in from the bedroom. She goes straight to Ryan and hugs him. “Eat,” she says. “Alex, throw those away. We’ll go to Moe’s for waffles.”

The diner does have good waffles. Ryan’s hungrier than he realized; he puts two plates away before he’s even finished his coffee. Z smiles hesitantly at him over her orange juice. “How’re you doing?”

The stab of anxiety is muted now. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” Z looks at Alex. “Because...”

“We’re, uh, supposed to leave for LA tonight.” Alex scratches the back of his neck.

“The studio--”

“Mark did us a huge favor, we can’t just--”

“No, it’s okay,” Ryan interrupts. “You should go. You already bought the time, and there’s nothing you can do out here anyway. I’m okay.”

“You could come with us,” offers Z.

Ryan shakes his head. “I can’t. I really can’t.”

Z puts her head on his shoulder. “Who’ll you be with, then? You can’t stay alone.” 

_A man named Daisy whose friends are witches who asked me to rip out my toenail._ “I do have other friends. And I can always go hang in Brendon’s hotel room.”

Alex looks unconvinced. Ryan orders another plate of waffles.

*

“I’m going for a walk,” Ryan had said. “Have a great time, if I don’t see you.” Z had hugged him hard, Alex less so. “Be careful,” Z had said. “We don’t want-- just, be careful.”

Ryan starts at Penn Station. He has no idea where Daisy might be, but if he can track down that line they’d been on, he should be able to find the bookstore. Even if Daisy isn’t there, one of the women might be able to help.

Ryan likes strangeness. He likes dusty bookshops where no one goes, mysterious women, masks and burlesques and carnivals. He just doesn’t admit it anymore; he’s outgrown it. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still like it. In theory, anyway. In theory, he can suspend disbelief and accept a hundred impossible things before breakfast. In reality...

It really had seemed like something happened in the bookstore. Things seemed darker. The spell they’d done, was that a spell?

Blood had run from Amanda’s mouth. But maybe that was fake blood, a capsule cracked in her teeth to give verisimilitude. They could’ve faked everything they did; it’s not like there were special effects. They gave him what he wanted, and in return he gave them--

Not money. No. Memory, Bebe had asked for. And try as he might, Ryan can’t remember what that memory was. He’d had something, and then she thanked him, but in between is blank. It’s measurable. It’s something he had, and now he doesn’t, and if they can reach into his mind and take things away, it means they can do _something_. Something like see into the past. And the present. And the future. Ridiculous. But still.

The train pulls into the station, and Ryan follows people out, up the stairs and down the central concourse. He wishes he’d been more aware yesterday. He follows the track of people around a corner, down another concourse, but that’s the exit, that’s not where he was. He turns around to try a different path. Daisy’s leaning against the wall.

“About damn time. I thought you might’ve bailed.”

“I was looking for you. You didn’t tell me where to find you.” Ryan doesn’t keep the accusation from his voice. “What line were we on yesterday? I can’t find the platform.”

“We’re going to Central Park,” says Daisy. “We want the C train.”

“Right, okay, but--” Ryan has to jog again to catch up with Daisy. “What line was it?”

“Are you going to quiz me on the MTA, or are we going to find your guy?”

“He’s in Central Park?”

“Possibly,” Daisy says. “We’re going to talk to someone who’ll know. This time try not to be such a shit, okay?”

Ryan follows Daisy down the stairs to the platform. “Yeah. Um. I don’t usually yell at people like that.”

“Just keep in mind we’re helping you. We don’t have to.”

“Why are you?” asks Ryan just as the train thunders into the station.

It’s a minute before Daisy answers, a minute where they’re pushing their way on and sliding into seats before anyone else claims them first. Only when the train is underway does Daisy answer. “Because this is one small part of something seriously, seriously wrong.”

*

October is one of the best things about New York. It’s a different country from Nevada. People think Vegas, they think desert, they think hot, but it gets cold at night, and in winter it’d snow if there was any moisture in the air. Vegas’s cold is a sandy dull cold, while New York’s is bright, gentle and sharp at the same time. Ryan will never go back to Vegas if he can avoid it.

The park isn’t just green, it’s lush. Summer brought with it thunderstorms, air oppressive with humidity and torrents of rain. Autumn’s air is lighter, with space to breathe. There are people everywhere, never mind the fact it’s a weekday; they cut class or called in sick or brought the kids out and it seems like half the city has congregated here. And that’s just the small section of the park Ryan’s looking at.

He follows Daisy down one of the drives, and wonders again how Daisy can walk so fast without looking like he’s racing. Ryan stretches his legs out longer and finds a loping stride that keeps him only a pace or two behind.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why we’re at the park,” Ryan says.

“We’re meeting a friend. I told you that.” Daisy switches onto another path that leads through a shady grove. 

“And this friend knows where Spencer is?”

“Probably not. But he’ll know about the rest of it.” He takes off, and Ryan loses sight of him until he rounds a corner and sees the Lake, and Daisy standing at the middle of the bridge over a narrower part of it.

Ryan comes up beside him, panting. “Okay, seriously, quit doing that.”

Daisy tangles his fingers in the iron scrollwork of the railing. He sighs and looks wistful for a second, then shakes his head. “Yeah. Try and keep up.” He takes off again, and Ryan follows.

Soon after they leave the bridge, they leave the path entirely and step into the woods. Ryan’s pretty sure this isn’t allowed, but he doesn’t ask why they’re doing it. Daisy leads him over fallen trunks and through marshy ground, at one point splashing through a stream too wide to jump over. Ryan’s shoes are ruined. Spencer would not be pleased.

The ground grows rockier, the dirt giving way, until they’re on a hillside of stone. It’s scratched and grooved, here and there layers broken away in chunks that create small crevasses. Daisy looks around, then overhead. “Sky!” he calls. “Sky, man, come on. We need to talk.”

At this point, Ryan wouldn’t really be startled if a piece of the sky dropped out of the trees, but it’s far more prosaic. A man comes up over the summit of the hill and walks down to meet them. “Hey,” says Daisy, and the two of them give each other slapping bro-hugs. For all the hugging Brendon did, at least he never gave the bro-hug.

When they let go, Ryan gets a good look at the guy. He’s either the world’s youngest old guy or the most bearded hipster of all time. He’s bald but his beard is truly epic, tangled and black and reaching to his chest. He gives Ryan a gentle smile. “Friend of yours?” he asks Daisy.

“Friend of Gabe’s,” says Daisy.

“Oh,” says the man, nodding as if that explains everything. 

“You know Gabe?” Ryan asks.

“By reputation, mostly. I met him once.” The man smiles. “He screamed in my face, then passed out.”

Yeah, that’d be Gabe.

“Sky. Important question here.” Daisy snaps his fingers. “The Ladies say war is coming. Soon. What have you heard?”

“War.” Sky looks meditative. “Nothing. I mean, there’s been no formal declaration or any processions. But I’ve seen more piskies than usual. And they’re... jittery.”

“When’s the last time the Hunt came through?” asks Daisy.

“March,” Sky says. “At equinox, when they took out the Hudson River melusines. We figured they must have done _something_ , but there was never an explanation. And things stayed quiet after that, so we just went on like normal. What does Gabe’s friend have to do with this?”

“My friend Spencer is missing,” Ryan says. “He was-- the Ladies said he was kidnapped out of his room. On the eighth floor of a hotel, through a window that doesn’t open.”

“Oh,” breathes Sky. He turns his mournful eyes to Daisy. “That’s gotta be the Friendly Neighbors.”

“I think so. Bebe, the new Ashlee, said one was Joel, so the other was probably Benji. Which means not just the Neighbors, but Aelfar as well.”

“Mmm,” says Sky. “That would be bad.”

“More than bad. All of them working together? Kidnapping a human? Kids, yeah, they’ll steal kids or babies, but a full-grown man? That’s not suspicious, that’s fucking dangerous. Have the piskies said anything weird? Even a little weird?” Daisy glares intently through his glasses.

Sky looks worriedly at Ryan. “Was your friend special? I mean, could he do things normal humans can’t do?”

Spencer _is_ normal. “He can drum,” says Ryan. “He can beat the shit out of the drums.”

“I don’t know if that would do it,” says Sky. “But there must be a reason they took him.”

“See what you can find,” says Daisy. “I’m going to go check in with Alex and Loren and see what they know. And tell everyone else you see. The Ladies have said war is coming, and it looks like it’s going to be the Uptowners versus the rest of us.”

*

Daisy and Ryan don’t talk again until they’re out of the woods and back on the path. Daisy slows down, at least slow enough so Ryan doesn’t have to strain to keep up. “So, it’s probably a good time to tell you about what’s happening,” says Daisy.

“You don’t have to,” says Ryan. He’s lightheaded with what he’s about to say. “You’re gonna tell me you’re not human, are you?”

“Yep,” says Daisy.

“Neither is Sky.”

“No.”

“And there are witches.”

“There are.”

“Who do magic.”

“Yep.”

“And war is coming.”

“It is.”

“So who’s attacking?” It’s surreal. Ryan wonders if the trees are going to grab him next. “The orcs and trolls?”

“No, no. Trolls are pretty peaceful if you don’t poke them. And there’s no such thing as orcs.” They’re nearly out of the park. Daisy pauses at a crosswalk. “The Friendly Neighbors and their minions. The Aelfar mostly, though some of our people have made themselves their bitches in exchange for money or power or safety. Not that the Neighbors will let them get too high up. That’d upset the natural order, oh ministers of grace and kindly ones attend thee.” Daisy crosses himself and spits.

“What are the Neighbors? Elves? Fairies?” Ryan tries to think of other words. He’s pretty sure angels doesn’t work.

“We don’t usually use the F word. They don’t like it, and they can be sneaky bastards, creeping around where you don’t see them until you do something they don’t like. Then you’re fucked.” Daisy looks up and down Madison, then turns left.

“Elves are okay with it,” he continues, “they don’t mind being called elves, as long as you’re thinking of the Tolkien kind and not the Santa’s Little kind. They don’t get pissed off. They only come after you if it’s business.”

Ryan reminds himself that no matter what years of common sense may dictate, he saw and felt something unexplainable yesterday. And yet. He’s reluctant to keep going with this insane show without something visible to trust in. He stops. “Prove it.”

Daisy turns around. “What?”

“You said fairies. You said there are elves. You said you’re not human.” Ryan digs his nails into his thighs. “Prove it. Change shape, or fly, or do whatever it is you do.”

Daisy closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again. “Fine. I wouldn’t do this normally, but if it’s going to make this easier for you to deal with, then fine. Just don’t ask me to do this shit again. I’m not your monkey.”

He leads Ryan into an alley, where a sluggish stream of water trickles from a leaky tap. Daisy kneels beside it, cupping his hands until the water collects and spills over his fingers. He looks at Ryan. “Watch.” And he flings his hands open, the drops scattering into the air like bright beads.

Hanging there.

Ryan blinks. The drops slowly converge, running one into another to create tiny puddles in the air. The puddles shimmer and turn into rivulets that trace down invisible windows, returning to the safety of Daisy’s cupped hands. He puts his hands down onto a weed growing through a crack in the asphalt, then opens them. The water holds shape for a second, five, ten. Daisy stands up, and it dissolves into a dark stain on the alleyway.

“What.” Ryan clears his throat. “How did you.”

“I’m a kobold. It’s what I do.” Daisy shrugs.

“What’s a kobold?”

“Depends on where a kobold comes from. Some are from the mountains, some from the forest. I’m from the river. I work with water.”

“But what are you?”

“I’m a person. Pretty much. I mean seriously, what’s a sprite? What’s an elf? We’re all just people who come from different backgrounds and have different abilitites.” Daisy shrugs again. “Like you. What do you do? You make music?”

“Yeah,” says Ryan. “I did. I do.”

“So you make notes and songs out of nothing. Like magic. I take water and shape it. Like magic. It’s just what we know how to do.”

Ryan can’t stop staring at the water stain on the asphalt. Daisy claps him on the shoulder. “Are we good to go now? Cause I’m not doing any more tricks, so if you don’t want to come with me, I’m taking off.”

“No.” Ryan turns his gaze on Daisy. “No, I’m coming.”

They go back to Madison and go another few blocks until Daisy brings them into another alley, and they duck around a delivery truck and a few trashcans, pass a pile of broken-down cardboard boxes, and stop outside an open door. Daisy whistles through his teeth, and a guy’s head pokes out. “I told you to quit doing that,” it says.

“I gotta talk to you guys. Get Alex and Loren.”

“Alex is on the floor.”

“Then tell him to take his break and get his ass out here.”

The head goes back in. “Aaron,” Daisy says to Ryan, as if that’s an explanation. Ryan nods, as if he understands it.

Aaron comes out to the alley and grins, all brown scruff and white teeth. “Loren’s got onions to chop for the salads. Rob said make it quick.” He wipes his hands on an apron that may have started out clean, but lost its innocence some time ago. A blond guy in a white button-down follows him and looks inquiringly at Daisy.

“Get Loren,” says Daisy to Aaron.

“Loren!” calls Aaron over his shoulder.

“What’s this about?” asks the blond guy. 

“I’ll tell you when Loren gets here,” says Daisy. “When’s the last time you saw the Hunt come through?”

“Last-- wait,” says the blond guy. “Aaron, have you seen the Hunt abroad anytime recently?”

Aaron shrugs. The guy who must be Loren barrels out and smacks into him. “I got three minutes,” he says, breathing heavily. His fingers snap the cuff of his latex glove against his wrist. “I gotta keep this job, you guys, I’m not gonna be able to make rent.”

“So Alex hasn’t seen the Hunt in living memory,” says Aaron to Loren. “How about you?”

“Huh.” Loren frowns. “Yeah, no, I don’t know. I remember the melusines.”

“I was just glad they were leaving us alone,” says Alex. 

“Here’s the thing,” says Daisy. “No Hunt, but _why_ no Hunt? Why’d they kill the melusines then disappear for summer? They weren’t even abroad at Solstice. What are they doing instead?”

Loren shrugs. “Whatever it is they do. Throw gold around, screw each other, wear stupid clothes. Whatever.”

Ryan speaks up. “Amanda said war is coming.”

Everyone falls silent and looks at him. Ryan’s not used to so much attention anymore; he squirms a little but says “I paid her. That’s what she told me. The fair... Friendly Neighbors stole my friend, and it’s related somehow. They want him for the war.” He’s a little surprised that he believes it now. They took Spencer for a purpose, and whatever that is, it’s got to be tied up with whatever they’re planning.

“Why would they want your friend?” asks Aaron, and yeah, that’s the part Ryan hasn’t figured out. He shrugs. “He’s famous, sort of. He’s in Panic at the Disco, he’s the drummer.”

Aaron looks at him blankly. Loren bumps him with his shoulder. “Drummer? How do you not know him?”

“Contrary to what you may think,” says Aaron, “I don’t know every person in existence who’s ever picked up a pair of sticks.”

“Some drummer you are,” says Alex.

“Fuck you,” Aaron says.

“Okay,” Daisy interrupts, “so we’ve established that the Neighbors are planning something, probably war. The Maddens kidnapped Ryan’s friend--”

“Spencer,” says Ryan.

“Spencer,” Daisy continues. “Which means van Vleet is involved, which means the Neighbors are in it with the Aelfar. And with both of them working together, it’s not hard to figure out who they’re going to go after.”

“Oh,” breathes Alex.

“Fuck,” agrees Loren.

“What we need is for all of you to find out whatever you can from anyone you can find,” Daisy says. “Any source you know about, hit it. We need details. What are they after, and what are they going to do to get it, and why did they need a human?”

“Why are you in charge?” Aaron asks.

“Oh, fuck you,” says Daisy without heat. “I’m the one who knows what’s going on, that’s why. Get going.”

“I need this job,” protests Loren. “I can’t just leave.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Oh my _God_ , quit hinting already. Fine, you can stay with me if you lose your place. You’d think you never lived underground or anything.”

“I’m not moving back to a cave,” says Loren darkly.

“The melusines were only the beginning,” says Daisy. “War is coming soon. Get your ass moving before it gets blasted off.”


End file.
